The Highwayman's Daughter

by Henriette Gyland

  Under no circumstances would he try to apprehend Mardell and his daughter single-handedly.

  It was an arduous journey back to Martha’s house. Cora’s head was pounding from the effects of the blow, and several times she felt so dizzy she had to stop and lean against a tree. She ached from their love-making but this particular pain brought a rush of blood to her cheeks and a little smile to her lips.

  She put her hand over her belly. Had Jack got her with child, she wondered? Her heart swelled with joy and longing at the thought, but then trepidation set in. Not because of what Ned would say. Her father wouldn’t judge; he never did. It was the thought of bringing up a child born out of wedlock which troubled her.

  Because that was how it would be. They could never be together, her and Jack. At dawn, as she’d watched his sleeping form, how untroubled he looked while at rest, she had briefly considered staying – becoming part of his family would provide enough money to keep Ned in good health. Then, with deep regret, she’d dismissed the thought. If her past were ever exposed, even Jack’s good name wouldn’t be enough to save her from the gallows. She had to get herself and Ned away to safety.

  And Jack wouldn’t leave his life for her. He had duties to consider. He was the son of earl and heir to a large estate, and his future lay there, looking after his family and his tenants. The sudden realisation that she would never see Jack again slammed into her with such force that she had to cling to the tree for support. For a moment reality gripped her chest hard and squeezed again and again; she feared all the air in her lungs would be forced out, and she would have no breath left. Tears stung her eyes, and she swiped at them angrily.

  Collect yourself, Cora, she thought. It’s no use. She couldn’t ask Jack to leave his family for her.

  She had no idea how long she stood there, in the clutches of despair, but finally she bullied herself into action. With grim determination she put one foot in front of the other and made her way home to Ned.

  Angry shouting greeted her when she neared Martha’s cottage, and caution made her proceed quietly, under the cover of the trees. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest at what she saw, and she stepped behind a tree, steadying her trembling hands against the rough bark. Four men were attempting to restrain Ned, and Cora’s instinct was to run out from her hiding place and defend her father, but against four men? She only had one shot in her pistol. Helpless, she watched as they cuffed him roughly and punched him in the face, and tears of frustration welled in her eyes.

  Two other men were looking on from the sidelines. One of them Cora recognised as the local magistrate, a corpulent, bellicose individual, who was shouting orders to his men in a booming voice. The other, a young cold-looking and elegant nobleman she recognised as Jack’s companion on the night of the robbery – the man George had described to her.

  Martha was nowhere in sight, and she hoped that the older woman had made it back safely from the hanging the day before.

  Ned was buckling under the restraints; even though he wasn’t a well man, he was still strong, and his captors had to use considerable force to subdue him.

  ‘Never!’ he roared in response to a question from the cold-looking man.

  It was then Cora realised that the men were after her.

  Oh, why had she not come home straight after seeing Uncle George? Why had she gone to the hanging? She knew why; because she had promised George, and it was the right thing to do. But she blamed herself for not warning Ned that someone was on their trail, blamed herself for dithering and getting hurt in the process. Blamed herself for having love-making on her mind when she should have been protecting her father.

  If they hurt him, I’ll never forgive myself. Please, God, don’t let them hurt him

  Chewing her lip, she debated whether to jump out from the bushes. She was wearing men’s clothes – they would likely believe that she was the young highwayman. Jack’s companion was bound to recognise her and would undoubtedly point the finger. She would go to the gallows, and that might well be the death of Ned. But he would definitely go to his death if he were to be accused of her crimes. She had to do something.

  She was about to step out from behind the tree when she felt a light tap on her arm. It was Martha, and she was holding a finger to her lips. Taking Cora’s hand, she dragged her deeper into the forest and out of earshot of the magistrate and his men; then she flung her arms around Cora, nearly unbalancing her.

  ‘Thank God you’re all right! When I saw those nasty characters setting upon you, I ran to get help, but when we got to Tyburn village, you’d disappeared and I feared the worst. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find you, and I had to go home and tell your father. Worst thing I ever ’ad to do. He’s been sick with worry and were just about to go looking for your when the magistrate and the constable and that other fella turned up.’ She let go of Cora and ran her eyes over her clothes, tutting. ‘I expect you saw what happened.’

  ‘They arrested him.’

  ‘Aye, your father has taken it upon himself to shoulder the blame for all them robberies that ’ave happened in the area.’

  ‘No! They’ll hang him for sure. And it’s all my fault!’ Cora hid her face in her hands.

  Martha put her hand on Cora’s arm. ‘Don’t fret. There’s ’ope yet. The magistrate – now there’s a smart cove, and no mistake – he knew he was looking for a young man, not someone Ned’s age, and Ned confessed that ’e was trying to cover up for a friend, but that the lad was long gone, up north. They decided to take ’im away all the same, but I don’t think they’ll hang him. I heard them talking about holding him until he softens up. Their words not mine, but they’ll keep him in the magistrate’s cellar for the time bein’.’

  ‘I’ve got to get him back,’ said Cora. ‘A damp cellar will be the death of him.’

  Martha gripped her arm tightly. ‘Aye, lass, I reckon it could be, but you’ve gotta think. Don’t rush in there and let ’is sacrifice be for nothing. Know anyone who can speak up for him? Someone high up perhaps?’

  Cora’s thoughts turned to Jack, but she dismissed the idea. She didn’t think he wielded enough power to intervene with the magistrate. There must be another way, she thought. All I’ve got to do is find it.

  Martha was prattling on about something. ‘… and that other man, an intimidating sort o’ fella, he said something about having recognised Samson, and I thought to myself, ’e’s probably got designs on that beautiful beast hisself, so while they weren’t looking I shooed him away lest they confiscate him.’

  ‘The other man recognised Samson? Was that how he tracked us down to your cottage?’ Cora sent her a bewildered look. ‘But Samson’s been stabled under your wood shelter since we left. He hasn’t been anywhere. Except that night …’

  The night Jack took her to his family gallery.

  Had she inadvertently led the man to Martha’s cottage? Had he been watching her, biding his time, or did he know what Jack got up to and had followed him too?

  The hows and the whys were bringing on another headache, and she pushed the mystery to one side. She had other things to worry about for the moment.

  First she had to retrieve her horse. She knew exactly where he would be: at his favourite grazing spot in Lord Heston’s wheat fields. It seemed fitting somehow that Cora’s horse should eat himself fat on the grain of a man who had scared her natural mother to death.

  An idea struck her – perhaps Lord Heston might intervene with the magistrate on Ned’s behalf if she were to confront him with the truth of her parentage. He was of a higher rank than Jack, and although he wasn’t universally liked, he was well-respected and might do so out of fear for his reputation.

  Cora and Martha waited until they were sure the magistrate and his men had left, dragging Ned along with them; then they returned to the cottage. The place had been turned over, very thoroughly, as Cora had expected, but to her relief they hadn’t discovered the loose brick by the chimney breast where Cora had hidden Jack’s watch
, as well as the miniature and the ring her father had given her. Nor had they thought to look among the dried twigs Martha used for kindling, which were stacked in an untidy pile in the lean-to beside the cottage. Here Cora had hidden her other pistol and her rapier.

  Having armed herself, Cora hugged Martha, who implored her to be careful; then she set off on foot to look for Samson. She walked across the scraggy heathland with long, purposeful strides, her jaw set. She had lost George, and the pain was still fresh. She had let go of Jack because her past could be exposed if she stayed, and that would put her father in danger. She couldn’t lose Ned as well. His natural time might come soon, she realised with gut-wrenching clarity, but she refused to lose him a second earlier than she had to, and not for a crime he hadn’t committed.

  She found Samson where she had expected to, munching his way through summer-ripe corn with a look of utter contentment. She whistled sharply, and the horse pricked up his ears, snorted appreciatively and trotted towards her.

  ‘Good boy,’ she whispered as she stroked his muzzle. ‘There’s no one quite like you, Samson, is there? George says hello.’

  The horse headbutted her gently and nipped at the jacket she was wearing. ‘These clothes are not mine, I know, but you’ll have to bear with me. There’s something we need to do.’ She eased the bridle she’d been carrying over his head while she spoke to him in a soothing voice; then, when it was secured, she led him to a tree stump, swung herself up and urged him forward with a nudge of her knees. Riding without a saddle wasn’t terribly comfortable, but Samson knew her so well that it was almost as if she could command him with her thoughts.

  She set off across the field at a brisk trot, her mind focused on what she needed to do.

  Rupert watched her from the cover of the woods. He couldn’t quite believe his luck in coming across the highwaywoman. Too late he had noticed that the old crone with Mardell had freed the highwaywoman’s horse, and he cursed the fact that he hadn’t been fast enough to stop it. It was a fine horse, and he wanted it for himself, so when the magistrate had carted the prisoner off to Hounslow, Rupert had decided to look for the animal.

  Finding the highwaywoman here was doubly lucky. The question was, how to overpower her? He had no doubt she was armed. Keeping his distance, he decided to follow her and see if an opportunity to apprehend her should arise.

  As she rode, Rupert had to admit that she was a very accomplished horsewoman, and he couldn’t help feeling a grudging admiration for the way she commanded her horse while riding without a saddle. Her bearing was proud and regal, yet completely in accord with the horse’s powerful strides. Her hair, tied back with string, was thick and lush like the horse’s mane, and the strength in her legs was mirrored in the rippling of the horse’s thighs.

  He enjoyed a challenge, and he felt a rush of lust combined with respect, a need to possess and control her the same way a man might govern a strong-willed animal.

  Rupert smiled to himself and began to steer his horse forward. Breaking her in and taming her promised to be most diverting.

  Something made him stop and mutter a curse under his breath. She was wearing breeches and a navy blue coat, but it wasn’t the fact she was wearing men’s clothing that jarred – she had been dressed thus the first time he saw her. What caught his attention was the subtle metallic thread embroidery on the pockets and the cuffs, just catching the sunlight; those weren’t just any man’s clothes. He recognised them only too well.

  The breeches were nondescript, a plain, light-coloured wool, but the coat … It was the same cut, colour and size as the modest navy-blue Jack favoured.

  It took a moment before the implications hit him. This could only mean one of two things; the highwaywoman had either robbed Jack of his clothes just as she had stolen Rupert’s waistcoat – and that still rankled – or Jack had willingly taken his clothes off and left them where she could take them. On which occasions did a man strip off both his breeches and coat? When he slept, bathed or …

  Bedded a woman.

  Had his cousin bedded her?

  While he pondered this, the highwaywoman suddenly spurred her horse, galloped about fifty yards, then swung sideways and disappeared into the trees. Rupert cursed himself for lowering his guard and allowing her to give him the slip. He urged his horse towards the place where she had ridden in between the trees, but there was no sign of her; he uttered another oath.

  Sensing movement behind him, he turned slowly, the hairs standing on the back of his neck, and found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol, cocked and ready to fire. Swallowing hard, he forced himself not to swear out loud.

  ‘Good morning, young sir,’ he said and lifted his hat. ‘How fare you on this fine day?’

  ‘Leave the small talk for the drawing room,’ came the curt reply. ‘How did you find my father, and what are they going to do to him?’

  Rupert looked from her face to her pistol, then back again and was slightly taken aback by the look of utter contempt in her eyes. ‘I see you’re a man of few words,’ he said. ‘Except you are, in fact, a female if my eyes are not deceiving me, and you’re wearing my cousin’s clothes. Tell me, did he give them to you, or did you have to “work” for them?’ He raised his eyebrows to show her exactly what kind of work he was referring to.

  He could tell from her sudden heightened colour and the way she choked back a gasp that his remark had hit home, but he was unsure whether to derive satisfaction from this or be enraged that his plans for having this filly before his saintly cousin had been thwarted.

  Her pistol hand didn’t waver; instead her finger tightened on the trigger. For a moment Rupert worried whether he might have gone too far; he didn’t know this woman at all, but she was likely highly strung and unpredictable.

  ‘I suppose your questions are reasonable enough,’ he said and tried to keep his tone as level as possible lest she made good the implied threat and pressed the trigger. ‘The magistrate will keep him in his cellar until the accomplice comes forward. A young male friend, your father claimed, although you and I both know that no such individual exists. So does the magistrate. As for how I found you, madam, that’s very simple. I followed you home the day my cousin saved you from being trampled and recognised the horse in your lean-to from the night you robbed me. And after you’d disappeared from your cottage, my enquiries led me to the old widow’s place.’

  The highwaywoman regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘I see,’ she said, ‘and I suppose I ought to congratulate you on your cleverness.’

  Rupert inclined his head. ‘Madam, should you choose to bestow such an honour upon me, it would be most graciously received.’

  ‘Tch! I don’t doubt it. Except I have a better idea.’

  With lightning speed she surged forward and slapped his unsuspecting horse on the rump with her reins. Startled, the animal reared and bolted, and all Rupert could do was cling on to the reins until he could get it under control. When he’d finally managed to calm the beast, the woman was gone.

  But not before he’d got a very good look at her.

  There was a curious birthmark on her cheek, which he hadn’t seen on the night of the robbery, probably because he’d been more interested in committing the details of her horse to memory. However, now that he’d seen her up close, her striking eyes intrigued him far more than her birthmark. With a jolt he realised where he’d seen such eyes before, and when the implications of that hit home, it made him see the highwaywoman in quite a different light. He swallowed back the revulsion at his earlier thoughts of bedding her, and tried to understand how what he’d learned linked to Old Man Tyrrell’s story.

  Was his cousin in possession of the same knowledge? he wondered. Maybe, maybe not, but why Jack hadn’t handed the thief over to the authorities and cashed in his wager with Rupert made no sense.

  But that wasn’t important now. What mattered was how he could use this information to his advantage. If Jack had knowledge of the highwaywoman’s identity and
hadn’t shared this with the magistrate that would make him an accomplice – it could land him in prison or lead to transportation. Which would pave the way for Rupert to inherit the earldom.

  Tightening his grip on the horse’s reins, he felt one step closer to the inheritance to which he’d come to feel wholly entitled.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jack’s parents were waiting for him in the drawing room when he returned in the carriage.

  ‘What happened?’ his father asked without preamble when Jack bent down to kiss his mother on the cheek. ‘You didn’t retire to the town house, I gather.’

  ‘No, I stayed at an inn at Tyburn,’ Jack admitted. His father would find out anyway, would get all the juicy details from his servants, who in turn would have got the information from the innkeeper and his wife. It was likely he already knew that Jack had spent the night in company of a woman. Usually it vexed him that his father always knew what was going on, but right now he had a more pressing matter on his mind. ‘Father—’ he began.

  ‘Tyburn? You went to the hanging?’ His mother had trouble concealing her surprise.

  ‘Hah!’ said the earl. ‘I imagine you were anxious to see another highwayman hang for his dastardly deeds. As I recall your childhood experience had quite an impact on you.’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ Jack replied, ‘but I had a purpose in being there. It wasn’t for entertainment.’

  The countess shuddered and turned away, and Jack cursed inwardly at the way his father could speak so bluntly about highwaymen, a subject which still caused his wife anguish whenever it was raised. It also annoyed him that his father could think he’d attended for entertainment; a hanging may be regarded as such by many, but Jack had never taken to it, a fact his father was well aware of. However, now was not the time to argue the point. ‘Father, I need to speak with you urgently. It’s about your cousin, Captain Blythe.’